"desdemona" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
The sensual curved line on the bed
perfect.
The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown.
Private room for me and you.
Darkness quenching the need to hide the
lustrous actions ensued.
Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****
Your garden grows quickly out of control.
Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by
inherent overgrowth
of emotion:
fervor, passion.
A kiss.
The last sweetness of
your lips
that will ever be given
or gotten.
Death.
A sweet relief for the world
from you,
Desdemona.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
*put out my light
put out my light*
as Othello did to Desdemona
no crimson painted on porcelain skin
from false betrayal found within.
*put out my light
put out my light*
allow my body to sink in the deep
my skin will shimmer under pulsing tide
only a ghost, my guiltless soul has died.
*put out my light
put out my light*
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
1
He'd love her
and then the coldness
of marriage took love
away from him
and the coldness turned into suspicion
and then into an obsession:
and she was an inconvenience
he murdered her a Friday
night
suffocated her with her pillows
it was easy;
like Othello did
but she was no Desdemona;
and he heard her whisper with her last breath:
"I'll have your eyes"
he cut her up in manageable parts,
and buried her below the floorboards
in the study
2
It is a year later
and he is at the computer
and far below lies parts of his wife
but now his wife is smiling
she's on screen
smiling like a Greek Goddess
and he sits transfixed
and she says:
*"You are Oedipus, darling -
I will have your eyes"*
She is smiling
He is willing
Beside the printer are paperclips
He undoes two
She beckons; she smiles
and she whispers
that same deathbed whisper:
"I'll have your eyes"
And he is Oedipus
Just paperclips will do
He gouges one eye out
And he gouges the other too
It is easy
She lies deep below
below the floorboards;
She need whisper no longer
And he is become Oedipus,
eyes gouged,
blind like the Greek Homer
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
(Solitary Chamber. Heart breaking melodious music is flowing silently. Young Ren is looking pale, soliloquizing.)
Young Ren: Sweet Flance!
Can you hear me?
I do know you can never see me now;
But hear me --- my words at least!
Feel my heart that hangs on nothing;
Yet resting itself on my unrequited love.
Hear me! Do hear me!
Send thy spirit unto me awhile,
And hearken my silent words.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now with thy partner
Breaking thy footprints with me once;
Yet ne'er am I angry with thee.
From him I should not take thee away;
Yet listen unto me awhile.
Dear Flance!
I loved thee not at the very first sight
Like Orlando and Rosalind ---
Orlando was a wrestler,
Rosalind was a fair lady.
Their love began at an arena in a contest ---
Rosalind in the guise of Ganymede,
Their love passed thro' rustic lands
Symbolizing the art of Nature,
Their love stirred the young hearts
With wonder and fancy.
Sweet Flance!
Romeo died of Juliet and Juliet of Romeo ---
Breaking endurance to chaos.
There was poison in their love.
Dear Flance!
Jealousy lingered in the fatal love
Betwixt Othello and Desdemona,
At night their love was born,
At night their love was dead
When blackened by the candle light.
Dear Flance!
Lysander loved Hermia
And sought fanciful beings
For their fanciful union.
Dear Flance!
Know you, Keats died of consumption?
His love for ***** Brown was limitless,
And so burst into tears.
Oh! No!
MY love for thee can never have comparisons.
Sweet Flance!
Blossomed my love for thee
When thou wert young,
When thou wert beautiful;
Yet it's not of Romeo's,
Of Othello's,
Of Lysander's,
Of Dante's,
Of Keats',
For they died of their love.
My love for thee be unrequited; yet ineffable.
You felt not my love; yet I cannot be Romeo.
Know you?
Romeo loved Juliet,
Juliet loved Romeo,
And so they died without love.
Loved I thy heart, not thee?
Love I thy heart, not thee?
And so,
We live in remembrance of each other.
Dear Flance!
Thou must be now living with thy partner
Rejoicing in his presence.
Can you think of me living myself.
Rejoicing in my thoughts of you?
Here am I in the air with wings waxed;
Yet I'll not fall down to fragments.
Know you?
I am to lead my life myself,
But with thoughts of you!
For
Loved I thee, still I love thee,
Ever I'll love thee.
(Young Ren sheds tears)
Sweet Flance!
My tears are not of my loneliness sans thee;
But born of bliss within me with thoughts of you.
(Curtain Falls)
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:38 AM UTC
One day, a decade ago, I came home from school,
And instead of starting my homework,
I showed my grandmother the picture I drew,
And my grandmother Edna said to me,
"Bran, you have one big imagination."
I grinned and shrugged, replying
"Sorry Grandma, I can't help it"
*She knows who she is....
And I think everyone knows where I'm coming from...*
Like all naive lovers, I imagined a happily ever after,
But Aphrodite discovered that i'm a functional disaster
Sort of like what happened when Wendy met Casper?
Silly, I know,
Well at least I tried to capture a little laughter.
I imagine her name as the name of a virtuoso band.
I listen enthusiastically to the band play,
"Eat your heart out, eat your heart out."
Yes, she's a band-aid.
I've imagined attending the salmon church with her,
Even though I don't believe.
Still I would do that for my Desdemona,
"I will deny thee nothing."
I imagined us getting married at an altar,
The honeymoon would be on the moon weeping honey.
Three years later, we have Harmony, our daughter.
My imagination is wild,
Maybe it's too far out there,
Where the wild things are.
Isn't it true that before you make something happen
You have to imagine it happening first?
Something like a self-fulfilled prophecy,
In time we'll see.
One day I came home from Mount Olympus,
And instead of professing agape,
I showed Cupid this poem I wrote,
And Cupid said to me, "You have one wild imagination."
I shrugged, replying, " I can't help it."
Cupid smiled and said, "You have a romantic one also."
Originally written 5/17/11
Revised 10/24/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Othello knew that she blew hot and cold and
though not told I knew that
Desdemona was a loner and could not
figure in the pack.
Each plays upon the rack of hearts
stretched and snapped
broke in parts and in parts whole,
one dance about the Christmas tree
another
by the Queen of May,
A soul, an art and each a part to part
as friends,
it ends as all things do, but I wonder if
Othello knew that she really loved him too.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
I'm ****** that I once thought
maybe
you were, in my eyes
worth every
sun
moon
and star
In yours
non existent
invisible like radiation
indivisible from the magnitude of the void
I'm ****** that you use to shine
so brightly
causing my eyes to look your way
Siren song
was your voice to my ears
Ambrosia
was the thought of you
your image upon my mind
Moses
was your form to my lips
Now I am here
Othello
seeking not your death but my own
Knowing it was not a trick
it always was what it was
you were never liken to Desdemona
you were always my personal Iago
You remind me that I’ve never known you
That is the pain and comfort
The closest ive come to knowing you
Reminds me of the most pain
Summer clouds in the desert
some hope
ive come to question your existence
You and I know
you’ll yield no rain
You are a reminder of intangibility
There may come a day when it rains
hell even snows
in the desert
but until then
you are not hope
you are a mirage.
©Christopher f. Brown 2013
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Everything is gnawing like what you gnawed on last night,
Salmonella, Desdemona, E. coli', which plight.
Wanting to exhale yet holding on to breath,
diaphragms help gag and heave but no relief is let.
rib cage throat and mouth expand.
but nothing works quit like fingered hands.
sightly stroking epiglottil muscle.
tightly choking back the particles
.
to live to release
to mutually be
just go back to sleep
no time for sick bees
cant enjoy the flowers
while you sit in the honey.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Othello, your pearl!
Don't let it slip from your hands.
Into another.
Deceive, Iago
For what you claim not to weave
A spindle of death.
Don't, Desdemona!
Don't fear the fault of your star!
Nor the fruits of death.
The sweet strawberries
Upon sheets of white and black,
run from Orange fate.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
in this world -
juliet poisons the city
with the ashes of her ancestors
and burns romeo's bones.
the feud is ended because
no one is left to carry it on.
desdemona drowns iago
under the willow tree.
they say there's a nymph here,
one with madness in her bones,
and when iago stops breathing
desdemona does not leave.
ophelia, the nymph says.
juliet watches them,
floating in their shadows,
and holds out for a sunset
before she jumps.
(they tell stories of three nymphs
underneath a willow tree.
the nymphs do not mind
that no one remembers their names.)
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
if all i did wrong in this lifetime
was trust you,
you will send me to my grave happily.
Sep 6, 2019
Sep 6, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC
When I was a little girl I wanted to be beautiful
Like the princesses I grew up watching
I wanted to look like a sunset
Feel like velvet
Sound like the prose
Spoken by lovers in the throws
Of shedding of every stich of their clothes
And in a nose I would smell like a rose
Every sense sensed of me would
Make sense of me
Since sensing me would be like sipping sweet sensuality
But now that girls want is a woman’s burden
Because I am beautiful
And men flock to me as the ocean flocks to the shore
As Desdemona feel in love with the moor
As the lion is obligated to his roar
But I want more
Than to be beautiful
More than the summers day I can be compared to
More than the ways you can count to
I want to more than just inspire the lyre that plays a song
I want to make the notes it plays
I want to write down everything it sings for days
¬¬to Put into words truth as beauty
And beauty as not always truth
To have the eyes of angels but be ****** for their knowledge
That creating beauty holds less weight than when its clear on your face
But by grace
I will still always want to be viewed as the poet and not the poem
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
I want to go somewhere where there is no end . Let no man's laws separate me from of dreaming, where your shadow play with mine . Let me be part of your pages . I'll wait for love is my religion . I'll wait until the children are laughing and while the fire is burning . Where are you? Are to you my destiny leads? . Is it all a game ? While talking to my soul, I wonder when the luck disappeared, hurts like a bite from a dog . Looking for you in this idol of god of the desert. Looking for you on the streets of Prague, disappointed as Desdemona.... Waiting to ride and glade with you, wild at heart as the Sioux . I want my skin to dance to the rhythm of your fingers . I have one last chance to redeem myself . I looked into the turquoise sky, perhaps in one of those planes you really are . Darkness had descended on the house of my grandfather. No one lives there no more but when clock strikes midnight remorseful read the letters hidden in the silver chest . Your love has shone as a reflection of old jewelry . I'm your lady with the blue hat . Nice and cold as an ice cube in champagne . There's so much I want to tell you , I gotta find a way .
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
Winter Born
.
March 20, 2014 at 11:21pm
I was once winter born for three days
I was once static cold
it was a breathtaking beauty
the cold was a dagger to my skin
yet no experience of sweet melancholy ever changes
ashes became lost memories of Desdemona
and the foolish act of madness
was everything real before,or after the storm?
was everything real before the fall of man?
i was once winter born
i was once static cold
a beautiful landscape slipping into shadows
a glance from the beauty of a black tear
i can taste her tears on my lips
they are as wild honey,and black licorice
when i see her eyes
i always feel as if i were absorbed into them
yet i apologize for being poetic
because i"m a wandering leaf without a shadow
i was once winter born
i was once static cold
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:00 PM UTC
is it
that the winter nights are so long
that has me sitting
here, before the window
looking out at the stars
or, watching the deer
sneak up on the
dried stalks of Desdemona
that keeps me
awake
so late at night
or, maybe,
it is you, there, thinking of me,
here
that keeps me awake
so very late
into the night
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
You know what it’s like to be alone with god?
(long version)
(An infinite rustle of ideas
Silenced in this steady heart.)
Here my shoes fall freely
god knows I’m hungry for primitive answers; you see I relate to
life’s barefoot minimum while maintaining a full set of
godly lotus lashes, who’s petals fall like thin paper trails
where I rest my mind as I savor earths crooning tempo
At night with you god the fires burn like morning coals
Just enough to start the coffee, Just enough to wash my face
Just enough to sip away night trails made of lust from another existence.
genuflection in prayer is my choice because this position lends me a humbleness that makes clear my own yearnings, my desires are purified into understanding that I can never stop this flow of desire.
I pray with connective tissue smells of jasmine and myrrh and pinpoint the dust bowls of fury hiding north of my shoulder blades.
I am soothed by the contrast, where I bow my head and make my own pearls of wisdom to follow, you hummm to my knowing, you dance to my foibles like prince did in purple rain. You never ask for love,
I Just feel like love.
I ponder:
don’t you think god that this fermenting human existence is innocent after all?
after the fall
(after birth love’s forgotten all knowing)
for it is in birth
I am blinded by my mothers cooing call
and now, that’s all.
It really does not matter why I forgot
I remember now
All of this ‘knowing’ triggered by my failings
Triggered by the lack of ‘others’ to fill me up
Triggered by the desperation to know who I really am
because of my … failings
I look above and our likeness is astounding,
I may faint in the truth of it ALL…
I am flush to the bone
I fall
Landing in the crucifix position
Against the wall of Desdemona’s illusions I lift the veil
I open up to your call
(The
All
In
All)
You said, “and greater works shall ye do than me”
You said, “be still and know that I am god”.
“The seed does not fall far from the tree,” you said
The busy bees came through imagined murderous pesticides
That was my life (imagined) and their words hummed me towards my alignment
“accept your magnificence” they buzzed
then god said:
”change your focus and let your failings
fall like tears (did you say duckwater god?)
…magnify the joy”
And you will see
The
I (In You)
And
The
(You In)
Me.
Linaji 2011
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
She’s a touch away, generations behind
An enigma wrapped in mascara,
Cleopatra in mittens, Desdemona defined
With the sweet scent of Scarlett O’Hara
She strums some strings in tender tune
With a melody’s voice so gently
I crave to believe as I howl at the moon
When she sang of her love she meant me
My cartoon brain scribbles scenes in panels
Bubbled words floating over my head
While asleep she poses, dreaming in flannels
On a phantasmagorical bed
Longing to adore being desperately charmed
My impossible dream is eternally armed.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
A globalisation of love
And hate
And of vague
References to mythologies
Desdemona or some
Forgotten Goddess
It’s 4 AM and
You walk home
Past the neon halo
Of a petrol station
And perhaps you stop
Without reason
And think
Without reason
Of all the coffee breaks
That separate your careful
Measurements
From a handful of sand
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
i think i fell in love with an idea
and i thought the idea was you
i think i fell out of love with you
when i realized i felt more alone
with you than without
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
Desdemona's engine stalled
she chortles contra possibilities,
neither of which are pellucid.
The night sky
reels in
mornings flight.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
I am from the second star to the right,
Wonderland, and OZ;
Where the Wild Things Are
and all the trouble that we caused.
I now know Desdemona
and, of course, Annabelle Lee
Beatrice, Viola,
for Love too
has blessedly broken me.
All of them though came
from other unconscious streams;
I desire not to be known for my name
but for my written dreams.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch
Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.
Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and—spent of flame—
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.
You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies—
imprisonment your sense denies.
You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None—winsome, bright or rare—
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.
But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew—
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.
Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian and Romantics Quarterly
Keywords/Tags: Love, romance, passion, moon, stars, fate, chance, lips, kiss, feet, dance, wild, romance, heart, chains, prisoner, imprisonment, cell, lies, death, heart, leaves, book, forsook, forsaken, betrayed, garden, gardens, rue, path, paths, nettle, nettles, hope, strangled
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC